


Impetuous

by CrystallizedInsomniac



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Loki Does What He Wants, Other, Post-Avengers (2012), Reader doesn't know what they did to deserve any of this, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5480675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallizedInsomniac/pseuds/CrystallizedInsomniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You watch as his back collides with the building and just about as his body is about to go through it, he's gone in a smoke of green. </p><p>A second later, your phone pings, there's a sudden change in the air and your ears go <i>pop</i> when a person appears in mid-air and then falls — crashes — into your glass table and into the floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impetuous

**Author's Note:**

> What am I doing exactly? Doing the thing I told myself not to do.  
> I guess no fandom of mine gets saved from me writing for it  
> a Reader-Insert. Please enjoy, I lost two nights of sleep for this.

 "See, I don't... I don't understand how they all can just, ya know-" You make a careless motion with your hand, it's meant to be productive, instead it ends up splashing some alcohol on your shirt and _fuck_. "just decide that I'm not... not  _quatilified_  for the job."  
  
It's certainly something that's been bothering you for the past two hours. You let your 'friend' know, because there's no one else. The bit of alcohol that's been splashed on your favorite shirt is beginning to dry and you set the glass down on the counter, wrinkle your nose and then blink. The room's swaying and there's suddenly two of _the_ guy.  
  
        "Aren't I?" You ask the person — well, you ask one of them at least —, words slurring just slightly. The problem is, that the person sitting next to you is not paying much attention to you, too busy nursing his own drink. The only reason as to why you're pouring your heart out to the guy it's because there's no one else.   
  
It's Monday and people work on Mondays, hence why the bar isn't as crowded as you'd like it to be. The idea of spending the night drinking and dancing was the main motivator as to your choice to come here, drown out your failures with some fun times with the various other people in the bar. Hey, maybe get lucky and be like one of those TV shows where the protagonist ends up accidentally sleeping with their own boss and wouldn't that be the funniest little thing?  
  
It could certainly spice up your boring and quite disheartening, pathetic excuse of a life.   
  
And isn't it ironic? You live in a world full of superheroes and mutants and freaks, and yet you're stuck living a normal life and not able to hold one single job for more than a week. Which is why you try to make things more exciting, run around, live life a little. It's an adventure they said, life's full or surprises.  
  
No one told you that not all surprises are good.  
  
But It's _Monday_ , and therefore, there's no party. Just a not overly-crowded bar full of people who are either too lazy to begin the week or people with money in their hands who don't care about working at all. Because on Mondays people are working, people with a future. You don't have a job, so you don't have anywhere else to be on this Monday night.  
  
The guy still hasn't answered you.  
  
So like the mature twenty[number] year old that you are, you place both arms on the counter and lay your head on top of them, turning to face your drinking companion. Squinting at him, you notice that he's observing you out of the corner of his eye. Blue? No, definitely green. "Stop ignorin' me, you ass." and then you kick him.  
  
Or you try to, your coordination isn't the best. At most, you end up touching his leg but that's it. He doesn't even twitch, like you haven't done anything and if it doesn't make you somewhat angry then you don't know what does.  
  
            "Hmm," Is what he says and then  _finally_  — as if he deigns you interesting enough, the asshole — turns to face you. From your position, the alcohol and the dark-blue lightning — which does absolutely nothing to help you look at his face more clearly — it's somewhat difficult to get an accurate portrayal of his looks. Thin nose and sharp cheekbones, the kind that your friend [Friend's Name] drools over, but fuck them, they didn't want to join you tonight so you're not gonna think about them. Green eyes that almost seem to glow and dark hair that's pulled back, it's wavy, falls just past his shoulders.  
  
            "You gotta pretty hair, what the fuck man?" You laugh, and then run a hand through your hair. He does, it seems soft.   
  
You watch as one corner of his lips tug upwards, just barely. He raises the glass of alcohol — what seems like scotch to you actually — to his lips, opens them, but not to drink. He replies instead; "I've been told, yes."  
  
British accent? Alright. Nice. Cool, you dig that.   
  
            "It's weird seein' guys with long hair, not that it looks ugly on you, I'm not hatin' either just," You close your eyes when you raise your head, because the room shouldn't be spinning. So you settle it back again in your arms, it hasn't changed that much, but at least you don't feel like tripping. "It's nice. Nice, fuck gender norms, amiright?"  
  
You throw your arm up and form your hand into a fist, waving it around with little caution. "Whoop!"  
  
            "Is it abnormal for males to sport long hair?"   
  
            "Sorta, people think females are the only ones supposed t'have long hair. Bullshit if you ask me," You sorta shrug.  
  
            "Ah," He says and you hear the distinct  _clink_  of the ice in his drink.  "Your people are a strange bunch."  
  
You snort, "Sure."  
  
Mentally you count to ten, because it makes you concentrate a little more, and hey, it does work. This time you raise your head and sit up straight on the bar stool, you don't feel like the room is doing some weird dance. The guy is still looking at you, one elbow propped on the counter and casually leaning his head on his hand.  
  
            "Since you're checkin' me out, might as well give me your name." You reply casually, because it helps you distract yourself from thinking about the job you don't have. And, when was the last time you chatted with someone attractive? It's been  _too_  long.   
  
He tilts his head just slightly, mouths opens. "Checking you out? I-" He frowns, to you it seems like he does that a lot. He remains quiet for just a couple of seconds — too long for you though — before he decides to speak once more, "Loptr will do just fine."  
  
            "Loprg... Lop....  _Lor..._ " You echo, and if he doesn't seem amused with your attempt at pronunciating the name. "Forget it, name's [Name]."  
  
            "Maybe you should try once more when you are not inebriated," He states, takes another shot of the amber-coloured liquid and then sets the empty glass on the counter. "As it is, I do believe you were complaining about your unfortunate life. What is it that you are not able to accomplish?"  
  
You eye him warily for a second, suspicion easily crawling into your mind. Was he going to make fun of you? Because you don't need him making fun of you, you feel like shit enough as it is.  
  
            "No." He says, raises one hand up — palm facing you — in a clear sign of meaning no harm, and there's something about his body that screams  _mockingly_  but you don't dwell much on it, he begins speaking again. "Simply inquisitive. Of course, you do not have to answer."  
  
And hell, did you say that aloud?  
  
            "As a matter of fact yes." He chuckles.  
  
Right, no more thinking. Brain-to-mouth filter is apparently offline.  
  
            "Hmm, good. I don't wanna talk 'bout it." You wave him off and then look in front of you. Squinting just the tiniest bit to dull the lights. Apparently the bartender needs a lot of light to illuminate all of the different kinds of drinks, which to you is plain out stupid and not necessary. Why have the place be barely lit and have the whole stand of drinks shining like the sun itself? If you're the owner you should know very damn well where your drinks are.   
  
It sounds like a good idea actually, " _Yo!_  Give me some vodka, I-" You turn to face the guy with the long hair — Lort.... Loptro — , he's still watching you, strangest expression on his face. "You, you seem like... like a martini sorta guy, right? I'm right ha!"   
  
So you do, order him a martini, because it's not like you don't have money. You have enough to spend it one some drinks, because Lor — you'll be sticking to that for a while — is being nice company right now and you definitely need good company. Bonus points because he's attractive. You watch as the bartender goes to prepare the drinks and then frown.  
  
You lick your lips, "Hey, you're attractive right?"  
  
Lor blinks and opens his mouth, "I... yes?"  
  
            "Hmm, cool." You nod, because maybe it's the alcohol messing with your brain. Some people do tend to look attractive when one is under the influence of alcohol. You just wanted to make sure, since, you're _pretty_  sure that no one's eyes should glow that much?   
  
            "Incan... _Incandescenten_." You mutter, watch as the bartender puts both drinks with a too loud clink on the counter and heh, it's so funny. You give Lor a lopsided smile and grab your drink, raising it upwards with surprisingly little to not struggle —  and hey, maybe you're more coordinated when drunk! — "Let's cheer."  
  
            "To what?" He asks, one eyebrow raised. He's still looking at you with confusion and probably something akin to amusement. There's  _something_  else though, you can't bother concentrating on it though. He does however, move to take his martini — lime-green, heh —  and you get momentarily distracted by the way his long fingers wrap around the stem. He's not opposed to the toast though, because he holds the glass up.  
  
            "Dunno. Life? Family?" You shrug, "You seem like the family sorta of guy don't you? Let's toast to family then, no matter how fucked up they are."   
  
You definitely miss the way he tenses, though it's just a second, before he smiles. "Yes. Let us toast then."  
  
            "To family." You say.  
  
            "...To family." He echoes.  
  


——

  
  
See, what ends up happening is that you wake up Tuesday morning to the biggest hangover in history.   
  
You wake up to the warm sun illuminating your bedroom, the bed sheets already too warm for your own liking. You open one [eye colour] eye only to observe the dust-motes dancing under the light that came from the window, apparently you were too drunk to close the curtains last night, otherwise you wouldn't be suffering from the light right now. There's nothing you can do about it anyways, so you hiss and then turn to face the wall.  
  
Effectively, this only works for about two hours before you're drawn back to the living world by the sound of a bird flying directly into the closed window of your penthouse. The small thud that came from the bird sounded impossible loud and made you grit your teeth. Pulling the covers off of your body, you manage to move around the room to grab your sandals and look at yourself in the mirror.   
  
You sneak a glance at your clock.  
  
 _7:30am._  
  
You let out a snort and then yawn, Tuesday morning and you're going to spend it nursing a hangover. How nice. Suddenly you don't feel too sad about not being accepted yesterday at that job. It's not like you wanted to work as a [Insert Job here] anyways.   
  
As you make your way into the kitchen to get yourself some aspirin and water to dim the headache a bit, you wonder just how long you'll be able to live off of your parents money. It's not like you want it anyways, and using it to live off of is just a constant reminder that you'll never be able to get away from them — because you love them a whole lot but they can be quite overbearing at times and you simply want to explore, live life on your own — and then you dismiss the idea, because thinking about your parents also adds to the pounding in your head.  
  
And you, you need some water. Which sounds excellent right now. Water, aspirin, some food and watching some of your favorite movies sounds like the best way to spend the whole day.   
  
            "Stupid birds, stupid window, stupid sun." You mutter as you grab a glass and fill it up with water, popping in an aspirin and then downing it with water, you let your eyes scan around the living room. There's nothing out of the ordinary, except for the envelopes that sit on top of your coffee table. Though you don't really care much about those.  
  
You're pretty sure that you wouldn't have been able to come walking home all on your own, not with the way you were drinking — and maybe you did spent a huge amount on drinks, but Lor...  _Loptr!_ didn't seem much drunk to you, so it was sort of your goal to get him as inebriated as you were, which you're pretty sure didn't end up happening — and stumbling around. You have brief memory of the events.  
  
At one point you're pretty sure he offered you to take you home, and because you were drinking and he seemed kind enough, you told him where you lived. Of course, here's where it gets blurry. You have no memory whatsoever of walking or even taking a cab, there was a hand on your shoulder and then next thing you know, you're already in your living room.  
  
You blink, and then lean against the counter, rubbing your temple. "Of course I'm not going to remember, too busy getting drunk."  
  
After downing at least four more glasses of water and eating a light breakfast — because you're not sure you can hold anything heavy, it's a miracle you haven't thrown up already — you walk over to your couch, plop down on it and then proceed to get comfortable to watch some movies on Netflix.  
  


——

  
  
At exactly 1:13PM you turn off the TV and stand up from the couch, stretching your arms and legs. You can sit down for so long watching action movies and drama before you grow bored, plus, an hour or two break sounded good about now.  
  
You head over to the coffee table and pick up the envelopes in there. It's mostly mail and some other things mixed in, not that you pay much attention to it. Sorting through until you find the ones that you're looking for, you grab those with your other hand and throw the others one into the coffee table.   
  
            "Let's see how much they've sent now." You mutter as you begin to walk towards the huge windows in your penthouse. Probably the only place in the whole place that isn't made of wall but windows instead. At first, you were pretty uncomfortable with the fact that you could easily look down below into the streets of New York, which set off some alarms, because if you could see them, what's stopping them from seeing you?  
  
Then again, it's on the highest floor. Chances of anyone being able to see you would constitute of them being able to fly. And anyways, the view is breathtaking and simply marvelous at night. You smile to yourself, it's a good place, pretty cheap actually, compared to the ones that your mother not-so-subtlety tried to get you to move into — and not with much enthusiasm might you add.  _Darling, but you have everything you need here! Why must you move out? Is it because we didn't buy you those rings? Life's cruel outside in the real world, why would you want to lower yourself so much, you are part of a whole completely different level in society! Oh Lord, a job? Why? You can always take your position as the CEO of my company?_ yadda yadda yadda.  
  
Maybe she stopped nagging you because of the view and mainly because about 60% of the house consisted of glass. It's huge too, at least, too huge for one single person to live alone. You often have thought about inviting your friends to live with you, alas, you don't think they're too keen to live in a place that's not as luxurious as their own.  
  
And it's not like you're ungrateful, it's just that, you don't want to live in your parent's shadow. You want to accomplish something for yourself, and if it means having to get a job and apply for them like regular people do instead of having it handed to you in a diamond-encrusted plate, well, then it's your choice. The least you could do is make them respect your choices.  
  
As it is, you're obviously not going to complain about the view. Again, breathtaking.   
  
You tear open the first envelope out of the two, and surprise surprise. It's money, a whole lot too — if you're going by middle-class people's standards. The other holds the same amount of cash but also includes a note. Frowning, because you never get a note with these, you read it.  
  
            Darling, I'm so sorry to hear that you haven't had much luck the past month with getting a job. It must be upsetting not being able to, although I am inclined to believe and to tell you that it's because they don't know what you're capable off. They're not really worth it, who wants to live working as a [Insert Job Here] anyways? If you're still not able to get a job, you can always count on us to get the position as CEO. Just give us a call.  
                                            -Wishing you well, always and forever, your mother.  
  
You clench your fists and then sigh. "Typical."   
  
You walk forward towards the windows and then move to the glass doors, stepping outside into the balcony. You make your way towards the railing and then look downwards. You're still wearing last night's clothes and they reek of alcohol and it's probably stained with the same substance, and you really need to take a shower.  
  
Yet.  
  
 _Yet_ , the envelopes burn in your hand and if it isn't the most awful feeling then well, you don't know what is. You eye both envelopes for a few seconds, tightening your hold on them until they wrinkle just the tiniest bit. Then your eyes trail off to the railing, the city below, everyone oblivious to the person gazing down on them.   
  
Because people don't look upwards, they look forward. Looking up only makes you seem small compared to all of the tall buildings, buildings that maybe them themselves will dream of living in, no. Owning. Because if they're to look upwards, they might spot someone like you, someone with too much money and too little care for the world, and then they'll realize that people are  _born_  into this sort of life. And they weren't the lucky ones to get that, so they work all their lives only to probably never be where you are.  
  
And you hate yourself just a tiny bit more.  
  
            "Hopefully you'll end up making someone happy." You hold both envelopes upside down, open, and watch as the dollars rain down and get swept by the wind. If the note that your mother wrote you also happened to be part of the paper that were raining, well then, that's just life.  
  
Fifteen minutes later — after watching the money fall, fall,  _fall_  for at least seven minutes — you're still standing out, gazing down below.  
  


——

  
  
You're outside on the balcony when the first tremors shake the city.  
  
Of course, since you're out and about trying to enjoy the —  _thankfully_ — cloudy afternoon since your migraine seems just about done torturing you. And you're sitting down comfortably on one of the lawn chairs with a drink in hand and cellphone in hand, checking out some things, mostly Twitter, and feeling pretty great. Showers are a miracle. It's quite understandable that when the city  _shakes_ — because, that's what it does, it shakes, like a dog might do when it gets wet — you instantly fall down.  
  
Wincing, you quickly stand up and then go to hold on to the nearest thing that's stable. It just so happens to be a table, and apparently not so sturdy, because seconds later, there's another tremor and then something that echoes loudly — and said sturdy table, freaking moves like the tremor itself. It doesn't take you more than a heartbeat to realize that it's an explosion and that therefore, you need to leave quickly.   
  
But, like the other citizens in this part of New York, you don't. Instead you switch the app on your cellphone to the camera and quietly count the seconds until—  
  
Whoops.  
  
There it is.  
  
            " _Nice!_ " You grin, barely aware of the sound of more explosions. You have a nice video of Iron Man flying by, and if that isn't going to get you more followers then you don't know what will. Moments later there's another —  _louder_  — explosion and you almost fall on your feet.   
  
There goes the glass, and the juice.  
  
 _Okay_ , maybe it's a nice time to finally get inside.  
  
So you do. Lock all doors, just because and then upload the video to twitter. Usually they evacuate the areas in which the battle centers around, and around twenty minutes in into the fight — where you're aware of the fact that the tremors and the explosions are getting further and further away — you're pretty sure they won't be evacuating anyone anymore.  
  
So you sit down on your couch, turn on the TV and change to the nearest new's station. Sure enough there's live reportage of the events currently going on. You see how the news reporter does her best to describe the events of what's going on, she says something about the enemy that quickly slips your mind, too concentrated on the action shots of the group of superheroes that saved New York about a year ago.  
  
You instantly take notice that almost all of them — save for Black Widow and Thor— sport some kind of bruise, Captain America's temple runs down with blood and there's some nasty bruises coloring the side of his face. Then, the camera shifts towards The Hulk as he tries to bring down the enemy — gold horns, long, it's difficult for you to get a clear shot of his face because he's gone as quickly as the camera manages to land a decent shot of the person — with what seems a tree?   
  
And the thing is, the only ones who seem to be keeping up with the enemy are Iron Man and Thor, landing a few decent punches and hits to the enemy. Because there are other creatures, rock-like, scattered around, fighting the others. The camera catches a nice angle of an arrow hitting one of the rock-creatures before it explodes — and you're pretty sure it's Hawkeye — and then reassembles into more enemies, smaller.   
  
Then, they change the camera angle — and how in the hell do these people get so close to the fighting scene?! they gotta have a death wish at least! not that you're complaining because hey, you get to see the action more up-close — and you're able to easily see how Iron Man fires at the enemy — who's back is facing the camera — just at the same time as Thor shouts something at him, the distraction serves well, because as soon as Iron Man's fire hits the enemy, Thor swings his hammer and it hits the enemy straight in the head.  
  
You wince slightly when you watch as the enemy flies off to collide heavily with a nearby building, his back collides with it and just about as his body is about to go through the building, he's gone in a smoke of green.  
  
A second later, your phone  _pings,_  there's a sudden change in the air and your ears go  _pop_ when a person appears in mid-air and then falls —  _crashes_ — into your glass table and into the floor.   
  
You scream.  
  


——

  
  
Okay, maybe it's something more akin to a shout with very — your mother would  _weep_ if she heard you — colorful language  
  
You're clutching your chest with your cellphone in between as the pounding of your heart seems just the side of too fast that it's possible that you might have a heart attack. You don't know. You do, however, know that it's quite impressive how fast you jumped up from the couch and got behind it.  
  
So now you're here, trying to calm your breathing down, ignoring the broken glass that used to be your beautiful table — and you'll definitely cry over that, much,  _much_  later — and observing the guy. The guy, who just so happens to be the one that disappeared just a couple of seconds ago from a battle scene. You're also using a couch as a shield.  
  
And holy crap, he's  _moving_.  
  
            "D-don't move!" You shout, instantly taking a step back when he keeps on moving, trying to rise just the tiniest bit.  
  
The man doesn't do what you tell him to, as it is expected, but instead lifts both hands — battered, bloody, — and takes the helmet off of his head with a groan. He throws it somewhere else, and it  _clangs_  with the nearest wall and you flinch when it does, eyes quickly moving towards the sound. The helmet is dented and bloody where his fingers gripped it.  
  
            "The witless oaf!" He growls out, runs a hand through his dishevelled hair and begins to remove some of his armour. He still hasn't looked up, still mutters out words and threats and when you catch sight of a dagger you suck in a breath.  
  
            "Hey!" You call out again, not knowing if this is a wise idea or not, and then throw your cellphone at him. It hits him in the shoulder — and you know that he doesn't feel it because it's armour he's wearing! — and well, there goes your cellphone. "I told you not to move! Or else I'll c-call the police!"  
  
            "This—" The man talks and there's something  _familiar_ about the voice, despite the hoarseness and what seems like confusion heavy in his voice. " _Oh_ , well. This is certainly inconvenient."  
  
And that's when he finally looks up and locks eyes with you. Your mind short-circuits just that moment, because you know those cheekbones, you know that face and you certainly know those glowing green eyes.   
  
You open your mouth, "Loptr—" You shake your head, mouth feeling sour all of the sudden. " _Loki._ "  
  
Loki grins when you say his name, all bitterness and  _something_  in your voice. It's not a pleasant grin, it's sharp and menacing — and it makes a shiver run down your spine, cold, so cold —, he's shaking, barely. The hand that he was using to remove his armour is now holding a dagger, and he doesn't look like he might be leaving any time soon.   
  
            "[Name], how do you fare this afternoon?" He asks, nonchalant, like he isn't a wanted criminal, like he just didn't crash on your living room and has glass poking out of his skin and covered in blood. God, he's still grinning.  
  
And you feel your stomach drop. Because the problem's just that! You were drinking last night with the same guy who levelled New York last year, and you were having a _fun time!_  And there's a lot of things wrong with that picture.  
  
You need to call the police.  
  
You brace yourself against the back of the couch, heart still beating too quickly. "I'm calling the Avengers." Is what you say, but is it possible? You're pretty sure it isn't. It's not like you have their phone number. Loki doesn't know that though.  
  
            "No, you won't." He says, picks himself up from the ground slowly and walks towards you, he's no longer grinning, but smiling now. Like one does when you find something funny.  
  
            "What?" You blink.  
  
            "You won't. Otherwise, you would have already done so. As it stands, I haven't heard nor seen you make any moves to call the mighty heroes of your little planet." And is it just you? or did his voice take a darker tone when he said 'mighty heroes'. And shit, this isn't okay.  
  
            "I will."  
  
            "You lie." He raises one eyebrow, "I'm not called the God of Lies for anything."  
  
He's still walking towards you and you take a step back, almost trip. You don't, which is pretty neat considering the fact that you're still shaking.  
  
And then Loki does it again, that same movement with his hand, palm facing you, both hands up. He shrugs — and you don't miss the way he stiffens after it — and those green eyes of his shine once more, it's mocking. He's mocking you. "I mean no harm."  
  
 _I mean no harm,_ like last night.   
  
And the thing is, that you believe him. Somewhat. You suppose it's maybe because you were drunk with him last night and vulnerable and if he wanted to do something to you he would've done it already, as it stands he just looks weary, stiff and all the same all powerful and god-like. He can crush you like an ant, but instead he's here, bleeding on your floor and showing you he's not going to do anything.  
  
You swallow.  
  
            "How can I trust you?" You ask, and it's not until you feel nails digging into your palm that you finally regain enough sense to at least look like you're not scared. It only works a little, and if he notices, he doesn't say anything. "How can I trust you if you call yourself the god of lies?"  
  
He blinks, clearly not expecting that question, but then he smiles, slowly, and replies with a voice so honest that you're hit with the backlash. "If I were to always speak lies, no one would believe me."  
  
You eye him warily for a whole complete minute — you count it, because it's either that or doing something extremely stupid and you don't want a god furious at you, The Avengers can handle his fury, thank you very much — before rubbing your temples. "Alright, what do you want?"  
  
In the blink of an eye, he seems less tense, more tired. Still godly and otherworldly. The blood is drying and some of the bruises on his face are less prominent now. Is that a god thing? It probably is. His body visible sags a bit forward, as if the armour is beginning to weigh down on him. Loki's still bleeding on your floor.  
  
            "Not much, seeing as this was not the foreseen place I intended to teleport into," He says, begins the process of stripping down his armour. You watch as he takes everything off, layer after layer, and it's quite obvious why he's doing it. You possess no harm to him, you're vulnerable. A human. He doesn't need to be wary of you.   
  
You on the other hand...  
  
            "...Nonetheless, I find myself in your home and therefore I wish to remain here until I've regained my strength." He clicks his tongue once he's done, now only wearing leather pants and a dark green tunic, he's barefeet. It's oddly personal, so you strive your eyes away from that. "What a mess."  
  
He does something with his hand, a weird gesture, there goes the  _pop_  thing again. Suddenly there's no bloody armor on the floor, no puddle of blood beneath him and certainly no broken glass where there should be, considering the fact that he landed on your  _glass table. You scowl.  
  
            _"Yeah, I'm about done. I need a drink."Is what you say, instead of _'Where's my table?'_ and then promptly turn around and walk away from the living room. Drinking sounds good, seriously. Magic.  
  
 _Magic_.

  
  
——

  
  
It's 7:45pm when Loki comes out of the guest room.  
  
You only know so because you hear the door to the bathroom open and then close with a click. You're sitting down on your couch, still staring at the spot where there's supposed to be a glass table. Except that there isn't, just the bent metal that was holding it up. No glass, no shards, no blood. Still no table. And you blink, because you're still not understanding what's been happening.  
  
It's been three hours since the demi-god popped out of nowhere into your living room. You don't know what he did in those three hours, because you went out, walked around the block. Got some coffee from that lovely cafe shop that opened up recently. Because you're not an alcoholic, you end up drinking coffee, and you're not going to get drunk with a villain in your apartment. Then, found yourself opening the door to your house again when you realized that you still haven't called the authorities.  
  
            "What are you doing with your life [Name], what are you doing." You mumble, rub your eyes with the back of your hands and then sag in the couch. The cell phone feels heavy in your hand, burning hot. You shouldn't be letting a criminal take refuge in your house. But he was covered in blood and looked pretty bruised, and despite the fact that he stood up and walked towards the nearest guest room — three, there are three because once upon a time you wanted to have your friends move in — with a  _"Be a dear and point me to the nearest bath chambers."_ like he was walking off a simple scrape. He looked tired, and bloody.  
  
And you think there's something incredibly wrong with yourself if you felt pity — no, not pity, something else. — for the villain. The fact that you haven't called the authorities is a huge sign of something definitely loose in your brain.  
  
            "You have a lovely home," It's what Loki says and it startles you. You whip your head around to face him, he's come out wearing a different set of clothes, still leather pants but now a black tunic. His hair is damp, ends starting to curl up. he's pushed the sleeves up from the tunic and you're able to see the bruises on his skin more clearly, some of them are dark and purple, while others have begun to take a more yellowish appearance. The ones on his face are almost nonexistent and you frown.  
  
            "Why can't you just, heal yourself with your, ah, magic?" You ask, ignoring his comment completely. Loki ends up walking towards one of the armchairs and sitting down on it. He leans back and sits down with his legs all open. You raise an eyebrow, but don't comment on it.   
  
            "I will not waste energy on something as feeble as injuries." Is what he says, he waves his hand — which looks better now, actually, and you might be beginning to understand why he doesn't heal himself up — in a nonchalant manner. "As I was saying, you have a lovely home. I can not begin to imagine why you would lower yourself to such a mediocre job when it looks like to me that you are quite wealthy."  
  
            "Mediocre?" You tilt your head, why is he?  _Oh_. "Ugh, wow, okay.  _Wow_."  
  
            "Hmm?"  
  
            "I can't believe you were paying attention to me," You feel your face flush. "Wow."  
  
            "Yes, why wouldn't I? I admit that at first I was a bit more annoyed with your constant blabbering, however, I've always noticed that people tend to be more honest when drunk. It was a nice change, you did not run when you saw my face."  
  
You understand why. If anyone saw him walking around the most immediate reaction would be to panic. "I was drunk."  
  
            "Yes. I was aware."  
  
            "Therefore I couldn't even begin to remember your face, of course I wasn't going to run." You furrow your eyebrows.  
  
            "Are you implying that if you'd have been sober, you would've called the authorities?" He asks, lip curving upwards just slightly.  
  
            "Yeah."  
  
            "Well, [Name]," and whoops, that's  _definitely_ a shiver down your spine. You're going to ban him from saying your name. "What are you waiting for?"  
  
And his eyes end up on your cellphone.   
  
            "I'm... I'm not going to do it. Okay?" You sigh and Loki lets out an amused chuckle. "Just, do whatever it is that you need to do and leave."  
  
Loki nods, and then sits up straight, leans forward and places his arms on his knees. "Gladly. I don't wish to intrude for longer than necessary. Unless you're not opposed to the idea."  
  
You blink.  
  
            "You certainly didn't seem like wanting me to leave last night." He grins and you choke on air.  
  
            " _Drunk_. I was  _drunk!_ " You roll your eyes, not really sure if to believe him or not. Blurry images, plus, God of Lies, maybe he's just doing this to provoke you. "Why my apartment though? You could've gone to your place... do you even have a place?"  
  
And it's an actual weirdly funny mental image. Loki living in a small apartment, probably to not attract attention.   
  
            "Yes, I do have a place to live. I was too preoccupied trying to not get unnecessarily injured, hence why I didn't have much time to think of where I wanted to end up at." Is what he says.  
  
You squint at him, "And, my house."  
  
            "You are a persistent little human, has anyone ever told you that?"  
  
            "Yes."  
  
            "You have a lovely home, I was not going to lick my wounds in some place rotten or beneath my status. As it stands, your place means you have quite the fortune." He snorts, it sound snooty and all types of arrogant. You're briefly reminded of the fact that he's a god and a prince and Google is a really good place to look up information of villains and heroes.  
  
Loki licks his lips, curiosity in his eyes. "Pray tell, why in the norns would you be looking for a mediocre job?" He extends his arms — winces, just slightly and you're overwhelmed by thoughts of how it would feel to get hit by Thor's hammer —  in a way to demonstrate his point, "You live like royalty."  
  
            "That's the problem." You groan and place your cellphone off to the side.       
  
            " _Problem_?" Loki asks, incredulity slipping into his tone, "I hardly see the problem with that."  
  
You glared daggers at him from interrupting you, and while he does shut up, he doesn't stop looking at you strange. "I don't want to be treated like royalty. My parents pamper me enough as it is, I want to do something by myself. I want to accomplish something that didn't require them or anyone else trying to get into my good side, giving it to me in a silver plate, I want to be able to say:  _Hey!_  I'm [Name] and I did  _this_  and I feel damn proud of it!"   
  
And dammit, you're not sure why you're pouring your heart out to the guy, but you began and now you can't stop and the years of frustration are beginning to easily show. Your hands are trembling.   
  
            "Basically, I don't want to do things and have people say that I was able to do it because of my parent's influence and wealth. I'm not their shadow, I'm my own person." You bite your lip and look at your lap, because it's suddenly more interesting.  
  
            "I see," Loki says after a whole minute of silence and you shift on your spot. "Is that why you're isolating yourself so?"  
  
Your eyes snap upwards, and Loki's regarding you with an intense gaze. You swallow. "Isolating... what?"  
  
His green eyes flicker off to the side, where the guest rooms are unoccupied. "You're young and have a rather open personality, I doubt you repel others your age. To me it seems like you're isolating yourself. All because you're scared of people using you."  
  
You grit your teeth. "I didn't realize this was a therapy session."  
  
He blinks, and then tilts his head, showing much more of the long column of creamy-pale skin, it's covered in bruises. It still doesn't matter because your eyes fix themselves there. "No. It's not."  
  
            "And I'm not isolating myself, I'm talking to you." You smile, trying to ease the trembling in your hands. And because you're at ease, you don't filter out your thoughts. "You know, you're not that bad, all in all. Maybe I should take you out to drink some time."  
  
Loki's eyes widen significantly and he opens his mouth. Words don't come out.   
  
And that's all the warning you get because in the blink of an eye, all there is is Loki's face, too close to yours. His sharp nose just a breath's away from yours and you suck in a small breath. You want to scoot back, put whatever space there was between the two of you before he stood up, but you can't. You're too concentrated on the fact that you can  _smell_  him, something resembling mint and vanilla. And if it isn't the strangest but alluring smell, then you don't know what is.  
  
Someone makes a sound, it's small and trembling and insecure. His green eyes lock with your own [Eye colour] and then his mouth curls upwards and in what you're starting to realize it's a real smile.  
  
 _This is dangerous_ , you think.  
  
And yet you can't stop looking at him, can't stop the shiver that runs down your spine and makes your blood boil when you realize that his lips are  _this_  close to touching yours and this is wrong, wrong,  _wrong_.  
  
And.  
  
And then Loki's gone. He's walking around the couch, like he just wasn't sharing breath with you just that second. There's a smile still plastered on his face — it's sharper, not as soft as the one he just gave you.  _Smug_  even — and his hand brushes the back of your neck as he walks away.  
  
You turn around.  
  
            "I'll see you in the morrow, [Name]." He calls out and you watch — dizzy,  _dizzy!_  God where's the oxygen?! — as he enters one of the guest rooms and locks the door behind him.  
  
You stay looking at the door for about four minutes before you remember to breathe.  
  
            "I feel like I just missed something." You tell no one in particular, and then when you pick up your phone and turn around, you realize that the glass table is fixed, no bent metal, no missing glass. It looks shinier, newer.   
  
You find yourself ghosting your fingers over the place he touched, it's warm, too warm and it makes your heart flutter.   
  
 _This is dangerous_ , you swallow. 


End file.
